


white bee, you buzz in my soul

by machiavelli



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:14:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machiavelli/pseuds/machiavelli
Summary: Loki's magic has always been with him, since birth. A silvery, velvet companion, writhing around his shoulders like a cloak, spitting and hissing at those that would do him harm, opening up great big beautiful flowers of eloquent spells, nudging the right words into his mouth and helping them slip out from between his lips like particularly persuasive smoke.It has always irked Loki how much it adores Thor.





	white bee, you buzz in my soul

White bee, you buzz in my soul, drunk with honey,  
and your flight winds in slow spirals of smoke.  
  
I am the one without hope, the word without echoes,  
he who lost everything and he who had everything.

_Taken from[Pablo Neruda's 'White Bee'](https://genius.com/Pablo-neruda-white-bee-annotated)_

 

 

 

Loki's magic is a part of his soul. He thinks it might be the _original_ part of his soul - ancient, crackling, incomprehensible - and that the rest of him simply grew around it. 

When people talk about magic as a tool or an instrument, Loki is quietly appalled. His magic is no more insensate or inanimate then he is. It's a living, breathing, wilful thing, that curls around his legs contentedly like a particularly wild cat when he walks. It converses with him. Not in the traditional, verbal sense, but he can tell when it...  _disapproves_ of the things he does. 

A feeling, like the taste of dark, bitter Midgardian chocolate, wells up on his tongue, and his fingertips will go sleepily numb. Of course, as much as he does not control it, he can  _guide_  it, baits it willingly in a certain direction and watches it follow, entranced. 

It's always been with him, since birth. A silvery, velvet companion, writhing around his shoulders like a cloak, spitting and hissing at those that would do him harm, opening up great big beautiful flowers of eloquent spells, nudging the right words into his mouth and helping them slip out from between his lips like particularly persuasive smoke.

It has always irked Loki how much it adores Thor. 

His golden brother, with his wide, gentle smile - which makes his eyes crease unforgivably and the blue shine like a polished stone - stirs up Loki's magic. It flutters around like a beating heart (or a dying bird), wings buzzing, practically dripping with obsessive glee. It makes Loki's chest warm, and he hates it. Hates this disgustingly _visceral_ reaction to his brother with a snarling, stormy fury, bares his bloody teeth to it and grins.

 

 

 

They are six years of age when Loki learns the lengths it will go to in order to protect the one who shares his title. Nothing particularly terrible happens - Loki is perched on the tip of a particularly old and kind tree, surveying the training grounds where a tiny, ant-like Thor is hurling himself at a man twice his size, javelin positioned like a kitten's claws. Loki finds it terribly uninteresting but admittedly still likes to watch his brother get knocked down, again and again. He doesn't quite understand why the fool continues to pick himself up and charge at the obviously superior swordsman, who is blatantly trying to teach him the lesson of being guarded with your enemy, waiting to dissect their movements and style of attack before plotting your course. It obviously goes over Thor's head.

He has changed viewpoints, and is looking out across the frayed carpet of black forests to the east, when the tangy smell of blood is carried to him, lifted from the wind to his nostrils by a tendril of his magic. It's sweet, coppery. 

His head immediately snaps back to Thor: lying on the ground, unmoving. His body moves, mind still whirring - who did this, how did it happen, what is the worst he should expect, why did he let the idiot practise with a sharpened blade, he could have at least dulled them both before beginning - and so does his magic. Loki runs down to his brother, unnoticing that he places his steps on nothing but thin air, immediately dropping to his knees by the body. The world has gone silent around him - his magic had been nebulously creeping over the inhabitants of the forest below, pasting itself thinly over every life form, learning, moulding, breathing with them. Now it's shot back in, consolidated, vibrating with an energy that strips the sounds from Loki's ears. He's so out of control that he lets it go, doesn't think, just lets it spill out of him, ceding control in his panic. 

It surges into Thor, flips him over, rears back as it sees the long maroon gash on his neck, the blood a thin red beaded necklace. Loki's breath catches in his throat, burning anger filling the cup of his ribs and sloshing over. What _idiot_ hurt him - the man is supposed to be at teacher, has been training boys for hundreds of years. The understanding filters down that there are agents, things, people out there who seek to undermine the Asgardian succession. Perhaps this was no mistake.

He realises his pale lips have been numbly murmuring _brother brother brother_ on repeat, the word slipping out like sand through his fingers. 

Magic is a fickle thing, and Loki only realises what it has done when Thor's eyes open, clams inching open to reveal azure pearls (itching to be plucked and kept to study meticulously, jealously, later). Loki has never felt relief like this - although it's the first time anything like this has happened. The wound begins to knit together, each strand of flesh causing Loki to lose more and more feeling in his legs, which crumple like a puppet who's strings have been slashed. Of course, Thor's general expression of discomfort morphs into one of terror and concern at a rapidly paling Loki. His neck is now an unblemished golden slate, and Loki's fingertips ghost over it, reassuring himself. Thor struggles to his knees as Loki struggles in his fight with gravity, his small body falling into his brother's lap. 

"Foolish brother," Thor whispers, eyes wide. "It was but a surface wound." 

Loki's green eyes flash with recrimination at the lie. "You were face down on the dirt - what would you have me do?" He bites out angrily, the sentence fading at the end. He is cradled by Thor's body, bent over his in the shape of a crescent moon. He has a strange buzzing all over, and for once, he can't feel his magic. It's retreated back into his heart, licking it's wounds from over-stretching itself. 

He realises Thor's brow is creasing, and his body has stiffened, follows his gaze as best he can to the other side of the training circle. He doesn't feel shocked by the sight that greets them. 

The instructor's body is all over the ground, blood and flesh splattered, rather artistically, in Loki's opinion, in rough concentric rings around them. He feels pleased, doesn't quite understand Thor's dawning look of horror. 

He feels an unfamiliar need to explain, to justify. "It was my magic." He croaks by lieu of apology. 

"Loki... what have you done?" Thor's voice is small, sad, but not afraid. Loki doesn't know if he could handle fear from his brother. He can brush off the strange and cold treatment from all others, but not Thor. Never Thor.

Loki closes his eyes, tries to stop the contentment seeping into his expression. This man will be a message - Loki will not tolerate harm to Thor, however slight. 

"He hurt you." He doesn't mean to speak; the words come out pointed, almost offended. Loki pauses, reigns himself him as his blood feels like it begins to move again. "As I said, I had no control over it - it was my magic." He emphasises again, slowly. He begins to feel afraid - Odin will punish him for this, he is sure of it.

Thor seems to realise this too, for he falls silent, face screwing up in thought. He rests a dirt-encrusted palm on Loki's hair. The smaller child sighs back the feeling of revulsion - it is worth it for the weight of Thor's warmth.

"We will say he attacked me." Thor announces after a good few moments of thought. Loki is surprised, and his eyes widen - his brother despises lying. He won't give him any reason to retreat back from this, instead nods, biting down on his lip. 

They wait a moment later before staggering to their feet, Thor supporting Loki's weak limbs. He hates that he is so drained, that he must rely on the other boy. It is a strange feeling - to simultaneously bask like a cat in Thor's sunlit presence and touch, whilst hating him for how much he likes it. It is a weakness, but it is a weakness he wants. 

 

 

 

From his oldest and most beloved garden in Valhalla, Odin sees the two, etiolated and shaken, limping back through the palace gates. He knows what has happened - of course he does, they are stupid to think otherwise - and furrows his great brow in weary consideration. They are changing each other, he sees, and it is a tricky problem to grasp. The threads of gold and silver are growing, interweaving, and if left alone will soon reach a point where even he will not be able to pick them apart without damage.

He sighs quietly, thick grey puffs of smoke, which immediately begin to rain. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> don't really know where this came from? i have two other fics to be writing lol. 
> 
> anyway, let me know if you think i should continue? i'd really appreciate some feedback - this is kind of a new style for me and i'm unsure? i guess? about it
> 
> in any case, read the above poem - it's beautiful.


End file.
